


maybe it wasn't hate?

by Melissy123



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Era, M/M, Quidditch, Seventh year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25400113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissy123/pseuds/Melissy123
Summary: Everyone thought that Oliver and Marcus hated each other. Hell, they thought that too, but what if all of the tension between them was more than just a rivalry? What if they always sought the other out, not just to fight, or gloat, but because they enjoyed it.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 7
Kudos: 139





	maybe it wasn't hate?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Prisoner of Azkaban book quotes (and one that I made up because I needed one more to fill out the story). 
> 
> Please excuse any mistakes!

_"They won fair and square," said Angelina, with only a hint of bitterness. "Even Wood admits it."_

_Harry looked around, a frown on his face. "Where is Wood?"_

_"Still in the showers, we think he's trying to drown himself," said Fred, cheerily._

* * *

Oliver really ought to go and see Harry in the Hospital Wing, he was the Captain, that was his duty. Their youngest team member had taken quite a fall, the Dementors no doubt leaving their full effect on the Seeker. The rest of the team was already there, Oliver should have been there too. It wasn't like Harry had meant to slip from his broom, it wasn't like he had asked the Dementors to wander into school grounds (but he had been so close to catching the Snitch, if he had just grabbed a hold of it first). 

Oliver banged his head against the wall. 

It was an accident, it wasn't their fault that they had lost but that didn't make him feel any better. It was Hufflepuff, they had lost to _Hufflepuff_. They might not have had the preparation they would have liked, but they still should have won. 

Now they were going to be behind on points, now winning that Quidditch Cup was going to be even harder-

There was a low chuckle from the doorway and Oliver could already feel his fists clenching, anger pumping through his veins. He didn't need to turn to know who it was, he knew, he always knew. It was like the Slytherin Captain could sense the most opportune time to come and piss him off, that there would be no one else here to witness the fact that Flint had gone out of his way to seek him out. Little did they know how often he did it (and how often Oliver did it in return, because he wasn't about to lose to a fucking Slytherin). 

"And here I thought Gryffindor couldn't sink any lower," said Flint, amused. "Then they go and lose to Hufflepuff." 

"Oh bugger off, Flint," Oliver snapped, turning a glare to the Slytherin. 

The smirk on his face only widened and Oliver still wasn't used to the straight teeth, it changed everything- he didn't look like such a troll anymore, quite the opposite (or maybe it just forced him to notice him more, Oliver had almost dropped his pumpkin juice when he had seen it for the first time at the Welcome Feast the previous year, he really should have been used to it by now). "That's not very nice, Wood," said Flint. "I suppose you'll blame us, but Malfoy has a serious injury, we couldn't possibly play. A good Captain knows how to adapt-" 

Maybe Oliver should have learned to have some self-restraint by now. He had been at arms with Marcus Flint since their second year, since they had first played Quidditch together. It only got worse when they were made Captain to their respective teams two years later. It was some kind of cosmic joke that it was both of them, always at the same time, always fighting. He would like to blame it on Flint, that the other took an unhealthy amount of pleasure in pissing him off, that he was always the one that started it. It would be a lie. Oliver could be just as bad. Flint was known to have a notoriously short temper, and he knew how to push it, enjoyed the spark of fury in his grey eyes. Maybe Oliver's temper wasn't that much better. 

It didn't matter that he was only half-dressed, his shirt still on the bench, that his hair was still dripping water, none of that mattered. Oliver stalked around the bench, shoving Flint into the wall. "Your lot are just-" Oliver never got to finish his sentence. Flint was never one to take a hit and not give it back. They had been separated on many occasions but no one was around to separate them now. The Chaser shoved him so hard that Oliver almost tripped over the bench. Flint was on him before he could recover, pushing him against the lockers with a loud bang. Oliver was pretty sure it would bruise tomorrow, but not as much as his pride. He fucking hated losing. Flint was bigger, stronger, his arms caged him in but Oliver still tilted his head up in defiance. "Your lot are just cowards," he spat out. "You knew you'd fucking lose if you played us this early in the season." 

"I guess we'll never know," Flint hissed. 

It was funny how for all their fighting over the years, it rarely devolved into magic. It was almost always verbal or physical or both, using a wand just didn't cut it. Oliver tried to push him back, glaring at the Slytherin Captain full tilt, but Flint barely even moved. Stupid, burly, asshole. 

"We'll still beat you," Oliver snapped out, refusing to back down. He couldn't, he was a Gryffindor, it wasn't in his nature. "You won't be able to cheat you way out of it when we're on the pitch." 

Flint smiled, his eyes gleaming. "You'll have to get there first. Good luck now that Hufflepuff are above you in points." 

Oliver snarled, pushing against his chest. Flint moved, but only for a moment, caging him back in once more. Oliver was suddenly very aware of the proximity. This had been happening far too often, a new kind of tension surrounding them whenever they were alone. It hadn't always been like this, had it? Flint's unyielding gaze held his own, a scowl fixed on his face. They had been getting physical for years, it wasn't new. But something was, something had shifted. It only pressed down on them more, the longer they stood there, the silence stretching out. A cough from the doorway, shattered the moment. 

Percy looked over his glasses at them, his face unreadable. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting," he said, dryly. His gaze fell of Oliver, his lips pursing. "Put some clothes on Oliver for Merlin's sake, or you'll end up in the Hospital Wing with Potter because you’ve caught a cold."

Oliver cleared his throat, shooting Flint a final glare. This time when he shoved him, the Slytherin Captain went easily. Oliver wouldn't blush, he refused, but it was the most compromising position they had been caught in yet (and that included the time they had fought over Quidditch equipment and Oliver had pinned Flint down in the grass until Hooch had come along and put them both in detention). 

Flint stalked past Percy, shouldering past him roughly. The Head Boy shot him a dark look, but didn't say anything. "You two are utterly ridiculous," he said, sharply. This time Oliver was the one subjected to his glare, a look of disappointment on his face. "Really, Oliver, if either one of you focused on your studies rather then each other-"

"I don't focus on Flint!" argued Oliver. 

Percy's eyes widened incredulously, "I beg to differ, I am the unfortunate soul that has been stuck in the same room as you for seven years." He shook his head, "Oh, this will show him, Slytherin can't possibly beat us with this play, Flint won't know what's hit him. _Seven years, Oliver._ " 

His best friend was overreacting, Oliver wasn't that bad. 

About Quidditch, sure. About Flint? No. It was ridiculous.

(Although, Quidditch and Flint were usually so deeply intertwined that it wasn't impossible. Even when Gryffindor weren't preparing to face Slytherin, they were there. Stealing their pitch with their ridiculous notes, stealing the good equipment, changing the match-ups). 

Percy shook his head, mumbling something under his breath that Oliver couldn't hear. The Head Boy straightened up, taking a breath. "Hurry up," he said, impatiently. "I have things I need to do, I'm only here because George said you were trying to drown yourself under the shower." 

That seemed dramatic, but Oliver wasn't about to argue with him.

He didn't have a death wish. 

* * *

_“Bad news, Harry. I’ve just been to see Professor McGonagall about the Firebolt. She – er – got a bit shirty with me. Told me I’d got my priorities wrong. Seemed to think I cared more about winning the Cup than I do about you staying alive. Just because I told her I didn’t care if it threw you off, as long as you caught the Snitch on it first.” Wood shook his head in disbelief. “Honestly, the way she was yelling at me … you’d think I’d said something terrible.”_

* * *

Flint was in a terrible mood, even worse than usual. 

His teammates were giving him a wide berth, all but Malfoy (he would murder that spoiled brat one day, he swore he would) keeping their mouths shut, giving him looks out of the corner of their eyes. He couldn’t care less, as long as they didn’t piss him off, they wouldn’t have a problem. 

He scowled at the back of Wood’s head. 

Flint might have gotten his way with the opening match, but he had heard the rumours. He heard that Potter had received a Firebolt, that Wood was pushing for it to be available for their next match. Flint wasn’t an idiot, if Wood managed to get the damn thing cleared, they would sweep the floor with Ravenclaw. The Firebolt was better than all of their brooms combined, it was leagues ahead of the Nimbus 2001’s. 

Maybe if he dropped Malfoy from the team Lucius would fork out to get him back in. 

But that would take time, time his team didn’t have. 

He wasn’t about to let the Gryffindor Quidditch Team get a win in his last year, he would sooner throw himself from the Astronomy Tower than see Wood lift that Cup. He had no doubts that the Scotsmen would take great joy in rubbing their victory in his face and Flint refused to let it happen. Those do-good Gryffindors had enough accolades, they didn’t need anymore. 

As if sensing his gaze, Wood turned in his seat, a grin spreading across his face. He winked, ignoring Weasley as he muttered something under his breath. Flint snarled. 

He probably should have been focusing on class, he struggled to pass as it was. He had almost failed the previous year, and he was on that line again. Flint might have had scouts at games, interest from the professional teams, but it would mean nothing if he didn’t graduate. He knew that, he did, but he couldn’t just sit there and ignore Wood as he practically radiated smugness. The Firebolt hadn’t even been approved by McGonagall yet. 

He hated him, he had been a pain in his ass since they had started playing against each other in their second year, and he was a pain in his ass now. The best thing about graduating was that Flint wouldn’t have to see his stupid face again anytime soon (even if he had heard that Puddlemere had expressed interest in the Keeper and the thought of meeting him in the National League sent a thrill down his spine). 

“For fuck’s sake,” muttered Higgs, “Can you two stop flirting for five seconds?” 

Flint tore his gaze away from Wood to glare at his so-called friend. Terrence met his eyes, unbothered. He was one of the few that could put up with his moods and the fact that Flint had replaced his position in the team with Malfoy, had only made that easier (Flint still felt a little bad about that, but then he looked at his broom and that feeling went away- besides, Malfoy had a better chance keeping up with Potter then Higgs did). There was no point dignifying the other with a response, it wasn’t like he would change his mind on the matter. He had been saying the same shit for years, Flint hardly even reacted anymore. 

It wasn’t his fault Wood was such an asshole. 

They were rivals, Flint had to beat him, it was as simple as that. He enjoyed making the other snap, making him sink to his level, eyes flashing with anger. He enjoyed sending insults and curses his way, reminding Wood that he wasn’t all that. And what was he supposed to do when the Gryffindor swung at him or took him to the ground, he wasn’t just going to let him win. He couldn’t do that, he refused to do that. In fact, he’d quite like to take a swing at him now. See how smug he was when Flint had the upper hand. 

The image of that was the only thing that improved his mood. 

It didn’t last. 

Malfoy kicked up another stink about the amount of training they were doing (he claimed his arm was still too sore- bullshit, they all knew he was milking it from the start). It was only Pucey and Montague that had saved the git from Flint’s wrath. Oh, how he had wanted to run his head through a door. Then he would know what it felt like to be injured. Flint would even take the consequences, Lucius could do what he liked, it would be worth it. He was a shit Seeker next to Potter, and that brat had just fallen into Wood’s lap by accident the moment he got on a broom. He had potential, he could fly, but Potter had natural talent and combine that with Wood’s equally rigorous training regime than Malfoy couldn’t even compare. 

Flint stalked the quiet hallways of the school, bypassing the Great Hall. He didn’t need dinner, he was too pissed off to eat. He was covered in mud, at least the Prefects Bathroom would be empty at this time. And no one would dare annoy him there, he could finally get some peace and fucking quiet. Maybe if he was lucky, he would wake up tomorrow morning to learn that the Firebolt was cursed and it would have to be destroyed. 

He was halfway through running a bath when the door opened (he had locked it, but clearly someone had been determined) and Wood appeared. 

“Fuck off, Wood,” Flint spat out. He just wanted peace and quiet, the last thing he wanted was to deal with Wood. It was only fun when Wood was the one suffering, not Flint. He was tired, sore, he had a headache. He just wanted to fucking relax for two seconds, that was all. Those stupid brown eyes just gleamed in amusement, the Keeper slinking into the bathroom. 

“Not your bathroom, Flint, I can do what I like,” said Wood, a smile on his face. 

Flint really wanted to punch him. Did Gryffindors not have any instinct of self-preservation? Do they just not give a fuck 90% of the time? Maybe he should have seen this coming since he had cornered Wood in the showers after his match against Hufflepuff, _maybe_. But this wasn’t even a victory, Gryffindor hadn’t even played their second game yet, Potter hadn’t even ridden the damn broom yet. Wood was just clinging to this tiny, nothing of a victory in an effort to get back at him. 

“Your little Seeker gets a new broom and you start prancing around the school?” Flint scoffed, “Have some pride, Wood. Do you really need a Firebolt to beat us? What if it’s cursed, maybe Potter will die.” He said the last words a little too hopefully. Gryffindor wouldn’t be able to recover quick enough if their Seeker died. 

Wood didn’t take the bait, he was still grinning like an absolute idiot. “It won’t matter how we beat you, just that we did,” he said, lightly. “Besides, Harry won’t die in a school Quidditch match.” It went unsaid that he would probably be severely injured, but Wood didn’t seem all that bothered. Winning was the most important thing, especially in Quidditch. It was the one thing about Wood that Flint actually understood. The Gryffindor hovered around the edge of the bath, doing his very best to make sure Flint could see him (and his annoying fucking grin). 

Flint clenched his jaw, his patience wearing thin (not that he had any to begin with). He closed the gap between them, standing so close to him he could feel the other breathing, feel his eyes on him. Wood didn’t back down, but he never did. He still looked smug, too smug. The air around them was warm and humid, a heavy scent of soap floating around them. It was possible that Flint hadn’t quite thought this through. Why did he need to stand so close? Why did he always need to stand so close? Was it meant to be intimidating? Wood was a Gryffindor, he wouldn’t be intimidated by this. Flint had been doing it for long enough and it hadn’t work yet, why would it now? He decided not to think about it too much, a smirk flicking at his lips before he shoved Wood into the bath. There was a loud splash and Wood surfaced, his hair plastered to his face, his clothes sticking to his skin, his eyes blazing. 

If looks could kill. 

“WHAT THE FUCK, FLINT,” he yelled. 

Flint just shrugged, “Figured that since it’s not your bathroom either, I could do what I liked.” He turned on his heel and left, chuckling to himself as Wood cursed him out. 

It wasn’t what he had come for, but he was certainly in a better mood then when he had arrived. Maybe a bath had been a good idea. He should have them more often. 

* * *

_Flint and Wood approached each other and grasped each other’s hands very tightly; it looked as though each was trying to break the other’s fingers._

* * *

They had won. 

Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup. 

Wood couldn’t believe it (well, he could). They had done it, they had actually done it and against Slytherin too. He didn’t know what to feel. He was relieved, elated, proud, joyous, happy, and maybe just a little bit tipsy. 

Oliver would blame that on Fred and George who had smuggled copious amounts of alcohol into the Common Room. Percy wasn’t happy about it, but he wouldn’t deny Oliver this moment. They had won, THEY HAD WON. The team had celebrated well into the night, deservedly so but Oliver needed one last look at the pitch before he turned in. He knew he was obsessed, he didn’t care. He wanted to feel the grass, breathe in the fresh air, look up at the hoops and feel that accomplishment that he had been waiting so long for run through his veins. 

It was the middle of the night, well past curfew but the pitch wasn’t empty. Oliver didn’t need to see him up close to know that angry hunch of shoulders, the tense muscles. Flint rode his broom furiously through the sky, and Oliver laid down on the grass to watch him. He didn’t know why, he could have called out to him, could have rubbed it in his face that they had won, THEY HAD WON. 

But he didn’t.

It was another ten minutes before Flint even noticed he was there, but Oliver was still riding on his wave of happiness to care (and alcohol, he had had a lot to drink). The Slytherin Captain landed, tossing his broom aside and stalking over to him. He looked angry, but that was nothing new. His dark eyebrows were furrowed, a scowl fixed on his face. Oliver watched him approach blearily, pushing himself to his feet. The world swayed, and Oliver was only vaguely aware of the fact that he was giggling, as he stumbled into Flint. It was reflex that had the bigger man steadying him, dark eyes narrowed. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Wood?” Flint snapped out. His nose wrinkled, “You’re drunk.” 

“And you’re cranky,” said Oliver, giggling again. “Should have won then, shouldn’t you?” 

“Surprised you didn’t show up with the Cup. If you’re here to gloat then save it, I don’t want to fucking hear it.” Flint turned to leave, but Oliver reached out, clinging onto his arm (it was a nice arm too, his drunk brain decided to think, Oliver could feel the muscles beneath his sleeve). 

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Oliver whined, “I wanted to see the pitch again.” 

Flint rolled his eyes, “It still would have been here tomorrow, Wood, you’re fucking obsessed-“ 

“You’re here too!” 

"I’m surprised you even made it down here without being caught.” 

“I’ll have you know I can be very sneaky, the sneakiest.” 

Flint didn’t look angry anymore, just vaguely amused. It was an odd look, Oliver didn’t hate it. He had definitely had too much to drink, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He still held onto Flint’s arm and the other didn’t try and shove him off. The rivalry was over now, there was no more Hogwarts Quidditch for either of them. He was happy, he was glad he had won, but Oliver wasn’t sure how he felt about it all being over. Sure, playing professionally would be his likely path but it would be different. Amazing, all of his dreams come true, but different. It would be different without that drive to beat Flint, to make those grey eyes turn stormy. 

“I’m sure Puddlemere will be very pleased to know their reserve Keeper is sneaky,” said Flint, his voice heavy with sarcasm. 

Oliver grinned, “Nothing’s confirmed yet.” 

“Yes, and Montrose haven’t told me I’m in their reserves yet either but I’ve already received the training plan.” Flint rolled his eyes. 

So maybe the rivalry wasn’t quite dead. 

Oliver couldn’t deny that the idea made him giddy. They would play against each other again, they would see each other again. He would have thought he would be glad to be rid of Flint, but for all their fighting, they had pushed each other to be the absolute best they could be. If that continued into the National League, then that could only be a good thing. And Oliver wanted it, he wanted to see how far they would push each other. 

“Congratulations on the win, Wood,” said Flint (albeit reluctantly, the scowl tugging at his lips again). His voice sounded so loud in the quiet of the night, the pair of them standing in the middle of the empty pitch. There were no crowds, no teams, no one but them. It was strange, they were almost always fighting when left alone but not tonight, maybe it being the end had softened them both (or maybe that had just been Oliver making a drunken fool out of himself, either way it was nice). Oliver found he didn’t mind being with Flint when they were like this, when it wasn’t angry and confusing, all heavy tension and sharp words. He especially liked it when the other was congratulating him on his win, and it must have shown on his face because Flint fixed him with a glare. “Don’t look so fucking smug, you only won once.”

“Yes, but we did win,” said Oliver, his mind taking him back to that moment. He felt that rush of emotions, the happiness, the relief, the pride. 

Flint shook his head, brushing his hand off. “Whatever,” he muttered, striding away to snatch up his broom from the grass. Oliver followed, trying his best not to stumble, not to fall over. He hadn’t thought he was that drunk, but maybe he was as the ground turned sideways and he swayed dangerously. He hardly even realised he was that close to Flint when the other turned around and they bumped into each other. The force almost knocked Oliver from his feet (not a difficult task in his current state), but again Flint steadied him. 

That was weird.

But then again, lots of things about them were weird. 

Oliver smiled widely, and Flint shook his head. “Go to bed Wood, you’re fucking wasted,” he said, firmly. The Chaser turned him around, started to frogmarch him back inside. Oliver didn’t make it easy on him. He didn’t want to go back inside, he wanted to stay outside. He liked it outside, the air was fresh, the stars twinkled above them. He whined, but Flint didn’t let up. 

“I’m fine.”

No response.

“Really, I am.” 

Silence. 

Oliver dug his heels in, a pout forming on his lips. “ _Marcus…_ ” he complained. 

Flint looked down at him, his eyebrow raising. Oliver was vaguely aware that that might have been the first time he had ever used his first name (out loud) before, that suddenly Flint had slowed to a stop and was studying Oliver with an unreadable expression. Oliver met his gaze, stubbornly. The atmosphere around them had grown heavy again, just like when they fought, when they stood so close they could feel each other’s breath. Except this time, Oliver was running on adrenaline and alcohol, a buzz humming through his veins. This time, he took in those swirling grey eyes, very aware of the hand still on his arm tightening. 

“Wood,” said Flint, warningly.

He didn’t know what he was warning him against. Oliver chewed at his lip, and Flint followed the movement. 

Ah.

That explained a lot. 

The tension, the arguing, the fighting. They were always so close, always staring (glaring) at each other. A day didn’t go by that they didn’t catch each other’s attention in some way or another. If Flint was avoiding him, Oliver would be the one to seek him out. If Oliver was avoiding Flint, then he would be the one to seek him out. Maybe they had hated each other once (maybe), but that had long since shifted to something else, something far stronger. It was why they had always fought against each other so hard, against what they felt but it was over now. They would graduate soon, go out into the real world and as much as Oliver would love to beat Flint in a professional setting, watch the emotions skitter across his face. He also wanted more. 

_More, more, more._

Oliver leaned in, his hands reaching out blindly for Flint’s waist, his head tilting up. Flint could have stopped him, they could have played it down to the alcohol, it would have been so easy. But they didn’t. Flint met him halfway, their lips meeting hungrily. Oliver made a noise in his throat as Flint’s hand moved to the back of his neck, dragged him as close as physically possible. It was so warm, but it felt so good. Oliver dug his fingers in to Flint’s waist, but he didn’t seem to mind. Flint nipped at his bottom lip, drawing a moan from him. It was never going to be gentle, no matter what they had been hiding behind all of their fighting and arguing, their competitive nature was still there. Neither wanted to be the one to give in, but Oliver was starting to get dizzy, the full effects of the alcohol hitting him along with everything else. He pulled away, breathing heavily and Flint chuckled. 

“You’re so drunk.” And he sounded fond, terribly fond and it made Oliver warm and soft inside. 

“Not why I did it,” Oliver mumbled, his forehead resting against Flint’s as he waited for his heartbeat to settle, to steady inside of him. He desperately wanted to wrap his arms around him, to feel all that hulking muscle against him but Flint placed his hands on his shoulders, pushing him back a step. 

“ _Go to bed, Wood,_ ” he said, his voice firm again. “You ain’t gonna remember this tomorrow.” 

“I will,” said Oliver, determined. 

“Sure you will.” He turned him towards the castle. “Go to bed, Wood.” 

And with that, Oliver was left alone. He pouted again, watching as Flint walked away. He would show him, he would remember tomorrow, he would remember everything. 

* * *

_Percy glared at the roof as Oliver stumbled into their shared room, as he banged and stumbled his way into bed. Percy had half a mind to yell at him, it was the middle of the night and they had classes tomorrow._

_He took a calming breath, closing his eyes for a moment. He wouldn’t yell at him tonight, Oliver had been waiting for this moment for too long and Percy wasn’t that cruel to ruin it for him. He had vowed to give the team a reprieve tonight, he was Head Boy but he would turn a blind eye._

_Oliver giggled, and Percy rolled his eyes, burying his head under a pillow._

* * *

His head was pounding, and no amount of hangover potion seemed to be helping. Percy didn’t have any sympathy for him, especially not when he tried to take a nap in class. He knew he wasn’t the only one, the rest of the team (Harry aside) would be suffering too. Oliver ignored Percy’s dirty looks as he rested his head on his arms. 

A smile tugged at his lips. 

No matter how drunk he was, he was never one to forget his actions and this time had been no exception. He remembered, he remembered every moment and he didn’t regret a single one (that might have a been a lie, he did regret the fact that he had barely been able to stand upright on his own, that was just fucking embarrassing). A part of him wanted to see how far he could push Flint into snapping, into throwing him up against a wall and having his way with him. The other just wanted to clear the air between them. It wasn’t as if Flint was avoiding him, he would sneer at him when their eyes met across the room, his lip curling, the loss still stinging. Oliver might have distracted him the night before, but that wouldn’t change the fact that he had lost the final. If it was Oliver, he knew he would have still been in a foul mood. Things seemed normal, but Oliver didn’t want normal, he wanted more. 

He remembered how it had felt to be pressed up against Flint, their mouths fighting for dominance. He wanted more of that, he wasn’t ready to give up the competition between them. Not yet, not anytime soon. 

Flint stalked the hallways ahead of him, no one daring to even look at him. Oliver fought the urge to grin, picking up his pace. He grabbed his arm, pulling the larger man into an empty alcove. Grey eyes flashed dangerously, a curse on his lips before Oliver swept in, capturing them with his own. Flint was silenced as Oliver wrapped his arms around his neck, and it didn’t take long for Oliver to find himself shoved against the stone wall. He hummed, happily, as Flint deepened the kiss, as his tongue slipped into his mouth. Anyone could have stumbled across them, and the rumours would have spread fast but neither were particularly worried. 

Flint could scare anyone into staying quiet.

“Marcus,” said Oliver, breathily. The Chaser twitched a little at hearing his name again, and Oliver tucked that information away for future use. A smirk tugged at his lips as he studied Flint. He was staying guarded, but Oliver could see the flicker of curiosity. “Didn’t think I would just let last night go did you?” 

“Didn’t think you would remember much,” Flint said, his voice cool. “Suppose I should have known better given how much of a stubborn prick you are.” 

Oliver grinned, “That’s right.” 

“So, what? You’re in love with me-“

Oliver hit him, “I wouldn’t go that far, Flint.” He looked down, before forcing himself to look back up. He wasn’t a coward, he could face this head on. “I guess I just realised there was something more than just hate between us, Flint. Obviously you agree, or you would be long gone by now.” Flint shrugged, but didn’t disagree. His eyes darkened when Oliver pressed himself against him, “Does it matter? As long as we’re both on the same page.” 

That seemed to relax some of the tension in his shoulders and Flint’s eyes gleamed, dangerously. “You’re being very forward, Wood. Just because you beat Slytherin, don’t think you’ll win against me all the time.” 

“I will if I’m better than you.” 

Flint leaned down, his lips brushing against his jaw, pressing against his neck. “Don’t fucking count on it.” He found his way back to Oliver’s lips, licking and sucking until Oliver’s knees went weak. “No matter how tempting those pouty lips are, you know I hate to lose.”

“So do I,” said Oliver.

“Oh, trust me, I know.” Flint pressed a final kiss to his lips before pulling back. “You should get drunk more often, it’s amusing.” 

“You just want to see me embarrass myself.” 

Flint grinned, “Maybe.” 

Oliver thought back to the previous night, to the way Flint kept him from falling over, to the fond tone of his voice, to the way he had tried to send him back inside. He had been pissed off, sore, tired, but something in Flint had been soft that night. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it happened again. 

“Who would have thought I’d win the Quidditch Cup and you all in one night?” Oliver quipped. 

Flint’s lip curled, “Don’t worry, Wood, I’ll get you back in the National League.” 

And Oliver believed him. No matter what they were off the pitch, he strongly suspected that it would be business as usual on it. Violent, angry, competitive, Oliver didn’t think any of that would change and he didn’t want it too, he would never want it too. He loved it too much to want it to change. 

“You can try.”

Whatever laid ahead of them wasn’t going to be easy, nothing between them was easy but they at least had to try. Yes, they would take it too far. Yes, the competition would get the better of them. Yes, they would fight, physically and verbally, on the pitch and off, but- and Oliver looked at those dark grey eyes of Marcus Flint, the challenging look in his gaze. He felt the excitement, the determination, the drive to win. 

It would be hard, but maybe it would be worth it. 

(Or maybe it would go up in flames, either way, they still had to try). 

**Author's Note:**

> A Harry Potter re-watch his opened my eyes to this amazing pairing, and there is so little canon material that I can pretend it is 100% a thing. Kudos, comments, and all that are always very much appreciated.


End file.
